


On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed to quote Shakespeare, Haunted theater, M/M, Not really but Dean makes it sound good, Shakespeare loved incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for a challenge where the prompt was: Dean and Sam are cursed to speak in Elizabethan speech for awhile.</p><p>I went with a Shakespearean curse, set in an old theater. Because no one does sexual subtext like Shakespeare!</p><p>(Set during Season 1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters

I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?  
\-- _Much Ado About Nothing_ Act IV:2

 

They arrive in Athens as the sun is setting.

The Impala weaves through the heart of the University of Georgia campus and stops across the street from the chapel. Sam’s sure it has a name, some formal title with a saint’s name or First United something. But, in true Southern fashion, everyone here simply refers to it as ‘The Chapel.’

Its massive white columns glow in the fading light.

Dean swings the car into a spot on the curb across the street, and Sam hops out to put a few quarters in the meter. They jog up the Chapel’s wide granite front steps, Sam trailing his hand lightly along the rail. “I hope we can still catch them at the rehearsal.”

Dean reaches the door first and holds it open for Sam with a mocking, _after you_ sweep of the hand. “Rehearsing what?”

“The wedding service.”

They stride through the lobby, but halt at the doors to the sanctuary, trying to be simultaneously inconspicuous and catch their contact’s eye.

Dean snorts. “Doing it once sounds hellish enough.”

“Can you _attempt_ to behave yourself?” Sam says in a low voice. “These are my friends.”

“No, they’re Becky’s friends.”

“Same difference.”

Dean leans against the doorframe. “And since when did ‘Little Becky’ become our chief dispatcher? Makes me wonder what kind of a reputation we’re getting.”

“Since when have you ever worried about your reputation?”

Sam scans the small crowd near the front of what looks more like a theater than a church. There is a large polished-wood stage instead of an altar, rows of cushioned seats semi-circle outward instead of pews. A minister and a matched set of young men and women are just filing down from the stage to chat with the people waiting below. Sam feels his heart clench, and he deliberately floods his mind with the mantra of _job, job, job_ in an attempt to drown out the unanticipated sting of _marriage, fiancée, wedding_.

A handsome, dark-haired man looks up at them, and Sam half-raises a hand in greeting.

He breaks away from the group and greets them with an anxious smile. “Are you...?”

Sam nods. “I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. Becky told us about your…um, situation.”

“I’m Rex,” he replies in a smooth, resonant voice. He’s Dean’s height with the sleek, wavy hair and chiseled jaw of a 1930’s matinee idol. Sam can see how this guy makes his living as an actor. Up walks a tall, stunningly beautiful woman, the kind the word ‘statuesque’ was invented to describe. Rex slides a hand around her waist. “This is my fiancée, Polly.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly in appreciation. With a lick of his lips, he lowers his voice a few notches and flashes his widest smile. “ _So_ pleased to meet _you_.”

Sam chokes back a derisive laugh. Only Dean, he thinks, would try to pick up a woman on the night before her wedding--and be such a blatant jackass about it.

Polly smiles blandly; she must get that crap a lot.

Rex digs into his pocket and pulls out a key. “This opens the front door of the theater. You won’t have any trouble finding it.” He waves vaguely toward the door. “Down this same road until you come to the forest. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been down there since Tracey… was killed.”

There’s a well-timed pause as Rex looks off into the middle distance, and Sam wonders whether this guy can’t help but turn even true grief into performance. Rex continues, “There’ve always been rumors of a ghost haunting the theater, but we just thought it was an amusing legend. You know, something to help bring in an audience. They said it would show up in odd places, reciting lines from plays.” He shrugs. "But no one’s ever been hurt before.”

“You think Tracey’s fall from the catwalk is linked to this ghost?” Sam asks. They’d heard the details from Becky but like to get some things straight from the horse’s mouth.

“It wasn’t just a fall. She was pushed.” Rex looks at Polly, who nods agreement.

“Is that so?” Dean prompts.

Rex’s lantern jaw tightens. “The guard rails are chest-high. And she was up there alone, but those of us rehearsing on stage heard her arguing with someone. It was no accident.”

Dean slides Sam an impatient, eager look, ready to quit the preliminaries and move straight to the main event.

Sam tells the couple, “Alright. We’ll check things out tonight.” As he turns away, he adds quietly, “Good luck with the wedding.”

Polly holds Sam back with a hand on his arm and speaks for the first time, her voice low and intent. “Tracey was our dearest friend. And the best actor, best director-- best everything-- in the company. Gifted enough to rewrite _King Lear_ as a female role and plan to perform it as a wedding present for us. She didn’t deserve to die. She deserves revenge.”

***

The rows of low-slung college-town apartments and fast-food restaurants that surround the campus quickly give way to stands of pines and sprawling oaks. As they drive into the forest proper, all signs of the city are left behind. There's only the paved road and a series of smallish wooden signs-- hand-painted in simulated Elizabethan lettering-- directing visitors toward “The North Georgia Shakespeare Company Playhouse.” It’s not quite dark yet, but under the thickening canopy of the trees very little of the twilight soaks through.

The Impala’s wheels chatter over gravel as they turn from the road and pull up to an empty parking lot that fronts a shabby—or maybe it’s “quaint”-- wooden three-story building.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Huh. I was expecting a little more ‘Southern Plantation’ and a little less ‘old Nevada whorehouse.’”

Sam chuckles in agreement and hops out to unhook a simple rope barricade strung between two poles. Dean eases the car to a far corner of the lot.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment and sucks in a lungful of damp air, letting the hush of cicada song and evening breeze wash over him. Then he jogs over to where Dean is rifling through the trunk for weapons and miscellaneous gear. Dean checks the clip on a gun and passes it, metal warm from his hand, over to Sam. “All salt.”

“Got it.” Sam double-checks the safety, then stashes it at the small of his back.

As they cross the lot to the old playhouse, Dean kicks at small rocks, sending them skittering ahead. “All the fawning over this Shakespeare guy is a load of crap, you know.”

“What?” Not for the first time, Sam wonders whether the never-ending stream of bizarre _non sequiturs_ Dean produces isn’t some kind of karmic backlash for something horrible Sam did in a previous life. “What are you talking about? Shakespeare is arguably the most influential playwright in Western Civilization. His plays have been performed for centuries, all over the world. What the hell do you know about Shakespeare, anyway?”

“What can I say? When the motel doesn’t have cable, sometimes I end up stuck watching PBS.”

“Oh, the horror,” Sam deadpans.

“All I’m saying is that Bill throws around all these ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and cross-dressing women and suicidal weenies, but nothing he writes ever _means_ anything. It’s just a load of bullshit.”

Sam sputters. “Dean! His plays. _Hamlet_. _Othello_. They’re some of the most…” He trails off. Dean’s poker face slips a bit. “Damn. You’re yanking my chain again.” It’s not a question.

Dean unleashes the waiting smirk. “But you’re so cute when your inner dork is outraged. How can I resist?” He winks.

Sam heroically stifles the urge to punch him, hoping to win back some karma points for the next time around.

There’s a simple sign over the front entrance, almost hidden in the bluish shadows under the eaves, that reads simply “Playhouse.” The windows are all dark except for a soft, yellow light shining from underneath the front door and through the tiny window at its top.

“Were we expecting someone? You know, someone human?” Dean asks. Sam replies with a one-shouldered shrug. Ghosts don’t tend to leave the light on, but you never know.

Dean lowers his voice as they draw near the building. “You have to wonder what kind of idiot is hanging around a haunted theater at night.”

“Watch who you’re calling ‘idiot.’ Hanging out in haunted theaters at night is kind of our job description.”

Nearer the building they get serious, silent, each slipping up to one side of the door. Dean signals Sam with a nod and throws it open.

Inside, at a small wooden desk in the foyer, sits a young man.

He’s short and slight, sporting a neat goatee that’s just a bit darker than his spiked-up blonde hair. The beard doesn’t do much to roughen up his delicate features, nor does his tough-guy outfit: black _Goodfellas_ shirt-- Joe Pesci pointing a Glock-- and camouflage pants. There’s a ladder of silver rings climbing the outside of one ear. The edges of a tattoo of what looks like a spiderweb peek out from the neckline of his t-shirt.

He leaps to his feet when the door flies open. “What the..! Man, you scared the hell out of me!” He looks very young despite all the piercings and tatts. But, to be honest, he doesn’t look particularly scared. Excited, maybe. Expectant.

“Sorry,” Sam says, holding his hands up, palms out, non-threatening. “Rex told us we could take a look around tonight.” While Sam acts as spokesman, Dean quickly cases the room.

The stranger’s face lights up. “Oh, are you the ghostbusters?”

Sam exchanges a look with Dean, his own wry amusement mirrored in Dean’s eyes. “Well…”

Dean says, cocking an eyebrow at Sam, “Ah, our ‘reputation’ precedes us.”

“Oh, um, I guess that’s, you know, a dumb thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Robin.”

Sam extends his own in return. “Sam.”

Robin’s hand is slim, but his grip is surprisingly strong. As they clasp hands, Robin looks up into Sam’s eyes intently, holding on for a few too many beats. A moment before Sam becomes more than just uneasy, Robin releases his hand and turns toward Dean.

“Nice to meetcha,” Dean drawls.

Robin grins like a found puppy and clings to Dean’s hand a bit too long, too. It makes Sam twitchy for no reason. The kid’s probably just spooked from hanging around alone in the theater and relieved to see them.

“So, have you seen the ghost?”

Robin strikes a dramatic pose and intones, “’I’ve seen the apparition with my own two eyes. Upon the platform where we watched.’”

Dean raises his eyebrows, unamused. “Come again?”

Robin clears his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry. Kidding. Just a little theater humor. You know, quoting lines.” He blushes a little and flashes them a quick, disarming smile. “Up on the third floor there are some doors that open out to a balcony and then from there a short set of stairs that lead to the roof. I’ve heard people say he hangs out there.”

“Thanks,” Dean replies, and turns to Sam. “C’mon. Let's check it out.”

Dean heads off across the empty lobby through the archway that leads to the stairs. Sam’s about to follow, but he turns back for a moment. “You should probably head on home. It might be dangerous around here.”

Robin nods, but doesn’t move. “That’s alright, I’ll just wait down here. You know, in case you guys need any help or anything. I’ll be okay. You just make sure you get rid of that goddamn ghost. He’s made a mess of everything.”

“How do you know the ghost is a he?” Sam asks.

Robin steps between Sam and the lamp on the table. He’s suddenly backlit, his face in shadow, lamplight shining around its edges.

He gives Sam an enigmatic smile, eyes half-hooded and strange. “I know a lot of things that go on around here, Sam.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You know what they say, ‘the play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the kin.’”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Oh, never mind. Just a little more theater humor. You’ll see.”

Sam frowns as he turns away to catch up with Dean.

***

The rest of the playhouse is dark and still. Dean has already passed through the ornate archway. His tread up the thick carpet runner on the stairs is muffled but audible in the otherwise quiet theater.

Sam lingers a moment in the foyer to shine his flashlight around in a wide arc, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Dean calls impatiently, “Sammy?”

As Sam steps through the archway he feels an odd… sensation, brief, like a jolt up his spine or ripple over his skin. It’s as if a camera shutter blinked, or maybe the floor shifted slightly beneath his feet. He pauses for a moment, but the feeling doesn’t return. Shaking his head, he looks up to see Dean halfway up the staircase, turning back toward him and staring into the shadows where Sam stands.

Dean calls again,  

    
    
    Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name.

Sam's lips pull against a smile. “Deny thy father.” Dean’s sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired; not that _that’s_ news. He opens his mouth to say, “Hey, dumbass, you’re doing the girl’s part!” But what comes out is,  

    
    
    I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

There’s this brief moment of shock, but even as his heart rate kicks up a notch, Sam’s training kicks in. Analysis of the situation? Loss of control, voice and movement. Danger level? Low, at least for the moment, at least from what he can tell.

Rapidly, he makes a mental list of the possibilities: possession, Dark Echo, psychosis, curse. He visually checks the area, checks Dean, holds himself ready, waiting for the moment he can take some- any- kind of action.

Yet underneath the hunter’s preparation runs a thread of wonderment. _Call me but love._ Sam heard himself saying it, his voice light and eager and begging. He knows it’s coming from a force outside himself, but in a strange way it also feels like it’s rising up from somewhere deep within.

Dean responds, the music of Shakespeare’s lines rolling through Sam, enriched by the rueful gentleness of Dean’s delivery.  

    
    
    Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “Ay,”  
    
    And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,  
    
    Thou mayst prove false. O gentle Romeo,  
    
    If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. 

Sam draws a sharp breath against a sudden tension in his chest. The part of him that has been hastily searching for clues and fighting to regain control fades into the background. All of his attention centers on the rough rasp of Dean’s voice.

Although he knows, logically, that they are reciting lines written for teenage lovers four hundred years ago, every word resonates. _False, am I? Unfaithful?_ It always comes back to this.

Sam catches Dean’s gaze and holds it. His own eyes narrow, intent and unsmiling. Sam asks,  

    
    
    What shall I swear by? 

Dean tells him,  

    
    
    Do not swear at all,  
    
    Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,  
    
    Which is the god of my idolatry,  
    
    And I’ll believe thee. Sweet goodnight. 

Dean turns to continue on up the stairs, leaving Sam floundering. They may be possessed or cursed or whatever, and it’s definitely fucked up, but Sam feels somehow like this is the most emotionally connected he’s been with Dean in months. _Years_ maybe. Something in him doesn’t want to let it end.

Besides, he never could stand to let Dean have the last word.

Sam finds himself leaping, grabbing a balustrade with one hand, the rail with the other, hauling himself up the side of the staircase. Up, even with Dean, he cries out,  

    
    
    O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? 

Turning back, Dean’s eyebrow quirks up in an expression Sam has seen on his face a million times. That sardonic smirk when he flirts with sexual innuendo. Dean lowers his voice to a lazy, liquid tone familiar to barmaids and waitresses across the country. He growls,  

    
    
    What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? 

Sam swallows hard, unused to having that voice turned on him. But he’s not letting Dean get off, pun intended, that easily. There’s no weaseling out of this with a joke and a shrug and a wave of the hand. Still hanging on to the rail with one hand, Sam reaches out toward Dean with the other.  

    
    
    Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine. 

The smirk slips from Dean’s lips and they tighten into a grim line. His eyes glitter in the dimness as he replies,  

    
    
    My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  
    
    My love as deep; the more I give to thee,  
    
    The more I have, for both are infinite. 

He reaches over the rail and touches Sam’s cheek with the tips of two fingers. Just as Sam turns his face into the touch, he feels the same slip-jerk sensation that launched this whole thing.

Dean snatches his hand back like it’s on fire, while at the same time Sam drops with a thud back to the floor below.

Slowly, Dean’s head and shoulders appear over the side of the rail.

“What the hell was that?” he calls down.

“Um, stunt casting?” Sam offers.

“Ha-fucking-ha.”

***

They climb the staircase past the second floor dressing rooms to the third which contains a single, high-ceilinged room. Mismatched pieces of old furniture and boxes and clutter have been pushed up against the walls to leave a large empty practice space. Lines of colored tape partition the floor. The far wall is an expanse of tall, multi-paned windows, broken only by a set of French doors leading outside.

As they cross the room, Sam tries to generate a working theory. “I don’t think what happened back there was related to the haunting. I think it was a separate phenomenon.”

Dean’s busy scanning the four corners of the room. “Uh huh.”

“I felt something, you know, right as I walked into the stairwell.”

“Hmmm.” Dean replies unhelpfully. He finally turns to look Sam in the eye. “Look. Let’s take care of one thing at a time. Ghost first, wacky thespian mind-control second. Alright?”

Sam reads something in the set of Dean’s face that says, _No trespassing._

“Did you –“ Then Sam realizes he’s not exactly anxious to share what happened to him back there, either. “Did you just say ‘thespian’? Because I seem to remember the last time you used that word—Phoenix, was it?-- Carrie Luciani gave you a big old black eye.”

“How was I supposed to know I was hitting on her girlfriend?”

“Dean, they were holding hands at the time.”

“Yeah, I remember. That was hot.”

When they get to the French doors, Dean draws his gun and waits until Sam does, too.

“Here we go.” Dean slips through the doorway, Sam half a step behind him. They find themselves on a deck extending along the length of the building. Half of it is covered by a wooden trellis; the rest is open to the sky. The moon has risen and casts a latticework of shadows across Dean’s face.

They quarter the area, searching for signs of anything and nothing in particular. But they hear nothing out of the ordinary; they find no strange smells or sights or other signals. Dean whistles. “Here, ghosty, ghosty.”

“You could always try waving around a bone.”

Dean tucks his gun away. “Hey, if you’ve got a better –“

A wave of cold air washes over them.

The ghost stands before them. Its hair is grey and shoulder-length, standing out wild around its head underneath a small circlet crown. It is wearing armor underneath a long, dark cloak that whips around it, although there is no wind or even a breeze to speak of. A long sword strapped to its back extends up over one shoulder.

For a few heartbeats, everything is still, tension buzzing. Then the ghost moves, pointedly turning its back on Dean, nodding at Sam and then to the stairs leading to the rooftop.

Sam goes to raise his gun and fire, but instead he finds it slipping unwillingly from his grip as that odd jerk-slide feeling ripples through him.

He calls to the ghost as it ascends the stairs,  

    
    
    King, father, royal Dane, O answer me!  
    
    What may this mean that thou, dead corpse,  
    
    Again in complete steel,  
    
    Revisits this the glimpses of the moon,  
    
    Making night hideous, and we fools of nature;  
    
    So horribly to shake our disposition  
    
    With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?  
    
    Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

And it makes him furious that he should be made to call this thing 'Father,' as if Dad would have anything to do with this apparition other than to snuff it out. He struggles against the compulsion he’s under, without success.

The ghost doesn’t speak or turn back, but gestures Sam forward.

Dean sidles closer to Sam, putting one hand lightly on his arm. He says,  

    
    
    It beckons you to go away with it,  
    
    As if it some impartment did desire  
    
    To you alone.

Sam is keenly aware that he is weaponless. He knows he and Dean need to fall back and make some kind of plan. But whatever imperative controls him carries him forward a few steps instead.  

    
    
    It will not speak. Then I will follow it.

Dean grips his arm tighter, bringing him to a halt. He insists in a low, earnest voice,  

    
    
    Do not, my lord. 

As if Sam has any choice in the matter at this point. Of course, Dean doesn’t have much say in the words coming out of _his_ mouth, either, but Sam finds the line between himself and his character starting to blur. He lashes out at Dean,  

    
    
    Why, what would be the fear?  
    
    I do not set my life at a pin’s fee,  
    
    And for my soul, what can it do to that? 

Dean swings him around, fingers digging into Sam’s biceps. His mouth is set as hard as his hands.  

    
    
    Be ruled. You shall not go.

The line is Horatio’s, but the sentiment is all Dean. Sam struggles in his grasp. He brings his forearms up between Dean’s, thrusting sharply up and out and breaking free.  

    
    
    By heaven I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!

Dean stumbles backward, and in that moment Sam is bounding up the stairs toward the ghost. He tells it,  

    
    
    I say, away! Go on. I’ll follow thee.

Sam arrives on the roof just as the ghost turns to face him. He anticipates going through the exchange of lines between Hamlet and the ghost that comes next in the play; what he doesn’t see coming is the ghost’s back-handed strike.

It sends him staggering, grasping at the stair rail, just barely avoiding toppling back down the way he came.

His head rings from the solid hit of that armored fist, and he’s so stunned for a moment he doesn’t realize that he’s in control of his body again. By the time he does, it's too late to dodge the ghost’s next attack.

It closes on him before he can duck away. Its grip on his shirt spins him away from the stairs and slams him with a vicious _thunk_ up against the rough brick wall. Sam brings up both arms to block another blow, but the ghost gets one forearm underneath Sam’s chin, crushing his throat.

 _Funny,_ he thinks. _I don’t remember the scene going this way._

His vision swims, lungs swelling and throbbing. His heels scrabble in vain for purchase as he’s held up against the wall.

The shot from Dean’s gun rings out in the still night air, tearing through the ghost and dispersing it. Darting forward, he splays one hand on Sam’s chest, shoving him down--a check, a hold, a shield. Dean scans the rooftop.

Sam pushes Dean roughly away and half-stands, ready. One hand is braced on his knee, the other to his throat, gulping in the night air until he can concentrate on something other than the simple in-and-out of breathing.

“You okay?”

“Not one word about choking, or I’ll kick your ass.” Sam croaks. “Not one goddamn word.”

“Now, Sammy, why would I---“

Again a lurch and a blink. Sam finds himself frozen leaning against the wall, watching Dean slowly march forward. The ghost has rematerialized. Sam struggles without moving, damning this curse.

Facing the ghost, Dean takes an unusual stance, one foot out in front of the other. Poised and posed. Shoulders turned. _En garde._

Dean pins the ghost with a disgusted glare and snarls,  

    
    
    You are a villain. I jest not:  
    
    I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare.  
    
    Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice.  
    
    You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. 

With that, Dean calmly raises his gun and shoots the ghost again.

He hauls Sam up by the armpit and drags him away.

***

They stumble back inside through the double doors and collapse onto a ratty plaid couch.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, unaccountably nervous, his body tensing at Dean’s touch .

“Just checking to see how badly you’re hurt,” Dean replies sharply, but his fingertips run lightly over Sam’s head and then his torso.

“Oh,” Sam mutters and forces himself to relax.

Dean quickly checks his arms and legs before finally leaning back. “You’ll live, you moron.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man. Nick of time and all that.” Sam stands slowly and cricks his neck, shaking out the kinks.

“So what now, Prince Not-So-Charming?” Dean asks, lounging, arms spread along the back of the couch. “Because that? Was fucking ridiculous. It’s one thing to get the whammy put on us walking up the stairs. It’s another while we’re going a couple rounds with the homicidal spirit of King Richard Lionheart.”

“Actually,” Sam mutters absently while pacing, “I think Hamlet’s father’s name was Hamlet, too.”

“Sam,” Dean growls warningly.

“Okay, okay. We need to figure out why he’s haunting the place. What’s keeping him here.”

“And the possession-subjugation-whateveryoucallit? What about that?”

“Man, I don’t know. We don’t have much to go on at the moment.” Sam runs his hands through his hair, tugging in frustration and glancing around the room. His gaze falls on a set of three filing cabinets, the standard grey metal kind, tucked back behind some old scenery and tumbled props. “Hey, look.”

He walks over to the cabinets, pulling open a drawer at random. Jackpot.

“Check this out, Dean. Playbills from old shows going back for years!” His voice rises with enthusiasm as he rifles through several other drawers. “And here’s newspaper articles with reviews and... ummm.” He trails off, humming tunelessly to himself as he does a quick once over of the entire contents of the drawers. Divide it up into general categories now, do an in-depth analysis the second time through.

Dean calls over from where he still sits on the couch, breaking into his thought process. “What do you plan on doing with those?”

“Well, they might have some information about the ghost’s legend, or even about the guy when he was alive. What else do we have to work with?” Sam starts clearing off space and staking piles of file-folders on top of the cabinets. “Here. You take the programs from old productions. I’ll look through the newspaper clippings.”

But instead of coming over to join Sam at the table, Dean summons him to the couch,  

    
    
    Come hither, boy. 

Ice cold tingles down Sam’s spine, whether from the resurgence of the curse or Dean’s silky-steel tone of voice, he doesn’t know. He’s yanked around like a marionette on strings and strides back across the room. He perches attentively on the edge of the sofa cushions, the knee of one leg almost touching the floor, the other knee just brushing Dean’s leg.

Dean leans forward, close enough for Sam to feel warm breath on his face. And even though they are alone in the expansive room, Dean murmurs low and intimate,  

    
    
    If ever thou shalt love,  
    
    In the sweet pangs of it remember me.

He pauses for a moment, and a response flashes through Sam mind, _When do I_ not _think of you, Dean?_ But Dean continues on,  

    
    
    For such as I am all true lovers are,  
    
    Unstaid and skittish in all motions else  
    
    Save in the constant image of the creature  
    
    That is beloved.

Sam imagines he could drown in the longing he sees fill Dean’s eyes. The ache and the need flow out of them, pull him in. He swallows hard. Why has he never noticed this yearning in Dean’s gaze?

But then Dean gives a soft smile and reaches up to caress the side of Sam’s neck. He wraps his finger around a longish curl at the back of Sam’s neck, tugging it twice fondly, playfully. Shit. It’s something Dean in his right mind would _never_ do, and Sam swears at himself for projecting his own inexplicable feelings back onto Dean. Dean is trapped in his role, not inhabiting it.

Not like Sam.

With perfect timing, Sam’s head turns sharply, breaking eye contact. Dean’s hand falls away. Sam hears his own reply,  

    
    
    My father had a daughter loved a man,  
    
    As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,  
    
    I should your lordship.

And his heart stutters at the half-confession, so near to revealing this strange reaction he’s having to Dean’s closeness, his forced seduction. At the same time, in the back of Sam’s mind, a little voice mocks, _Dear Abby, I have this ‘friend’ who’s discovered he’s got an abnormal crush on his brother. What should he do?_

Dean asks mildly, playing along,  

    
    
    And what's her history?

Still looking off to the side, Sam replies,  

    
    
    A blank, my lord. She never told her love,  
    
    But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,  
    
    Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,  
    
    And with a green and yellow melancholy  
    
    She sat like patience on a monument,  
    
    Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

 _Concealment_. Yes. That he can do. And patience and melancholy and grief and love. This was a combination Sam is intimately familiar with. He can wear it around quite comfortably, find a way to rid them of this curse, and never let Dean see how changed he is.

Dean crooks one finger under Sam’s chin and gently turns him back to face him. It’s such an abominable romantic cliché that Sam looks up expecting to see Dean laughing his ass off. But instead that same longing-- mixed with desire, Sam’s sure of it-- is all that he can see.

Dean rubs his thumb hesitantly and whisper-soft back and forth across Sam’s lips.  

    
    
    Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times  
    
    Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Sam inhales a quick, sharp breath. He feels the shock of Dean’s touch surge lightning-fast from his lips to his groin. Wide-eyed, he feels a blush fill his cheeks as he gasps out,  

    
    
    And all those sayings will I over swear,  
    
    And all those swearings keep as true in soul.

“Jesus _Christ_!” Dean jumps to his feet and stalks over to the far wall. Tight-lipped and tense, he looks like he’s about to punch his hand right through it, but rather than break his knuckles, he settles for smacking it once with the flat of his hand.

Sam just sits staring at his hands, twisting his fingers together. He wonders why his heart is beating so hard and fast, why his palms are so clammy. He wonders why he wants so badly to walk over to Dean and place a hand on his chest to see if his heart is hammering, too.

 

***

 

Awkward silence evolves into comfortable silence some time around midnight. Not that they’ve talked about what had happened or anything straightforward like that. There’s just a mutually unspoken decision to forge onward, to keep pursuing the ghost, to studiously avoid looking over at the couch.

The familiar rhythm of their task helps to diffuse some of the residual tension. How many times in the past have they sat in a library across a table full of papers, sifting through the chaff to find the kernels of clues? How many times at Stanford had Sam sat studying and looked up, surprised not to see Dean there, feet up, paging through some old grimoire or manuscript? And so, here they are. Burying uncomfortable emotions underneath piles of research.

Sam rolls his stiff shoulders and reaches for the next folder in the stack in front of him.

“Ha!” Dean lets out a short bark of triumph. “I think I got ‘im.”

“Let me see.” Sam rounds the table and looks over Dean’s shoulder.

The historian in Sam cringes briefly when he sees that Dean has folded the decades-old Playbill backward on its spine, but then he turns his attention to the column of pictures next to the cast biographies. There’s a striking headshot of the man whose ghost attacked him on the rooftop.

“’Richard Gloucester,’” Dean reads. “Looks like he was a bit-part actor. I found his name listed in dozens of other productions going back for years, but this is the first time they showed his picture.”

Sam repeats the name a few times. “Gloucester. Gloucester.” He reaches across the table and grabs a handful of folders he’d set off to one side, quickly flipping through until he comes up with a handful of newsprint. “Look. It says here that this guy-- Richard Gloucester-- was to play the lead role in _King Lear_ in October 1987. His ‘big break,’ well, at least, in the north Georgia theater community.” He rolls his eyes. “But he fell from the catwalk the week before production, that’s when they installed the high guardrails.”

He gives Dean a significant look. “Back at the church, Polly told me they were going to stage an experimental version of _King Lear_ later this season… with Tracey playing Lear.”

“Is this the first time since ’87 they’ve planned to stage _Lear_?”

Sam rifles through his papers for confirmation. “Looks like it.”

“Alright! Nice work, Columbo.” Dean reaches for the newspaper article on Gloucester to skim it himself. “Damn, looks like the guy was cremated. That most likely means we’re looking for some sort of object tied to him.”

“Hmm.” Sam replies. He’s looking down at one of the Playbills left open on the table. _A Midsummer Night’s Dream._ A niggling feeling itches at the back of Sam’s brain. While Dean continues to read up on the ghost, Sam pages blindly through the old program, trying to tease out some insight.

Then it hits him. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Robin. Robin Goodfellow. Puck.” Sam slaps the program down on the table. “Jesus, Dean, he’s one of the Fae!”

Dean looks up, bemused, “What are you talking about?”

“Robin Goodfellow is a faerie or a hobgoblin, straight out of folklore. Shakespeare used him in his play, but that’s just the most famous description of him. He’s been around long before that, and he’s mostly known for shape-shifting and making mischief. You know,” Sam grimaces, “Playing dirty tricks on humans.”

“So you think the guy we met downstairs is Puck? _The_ Puck? And that he’s responsible for all this reciting bullshit we’ve been hit with?”

A voice echoes in Sam’s ears, _The play’s the thing…_

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“Well, then.” Dean stands and heads determinedly for the stairs. “Let’s go have a little talk with him.”

“Uh, Dean.” Sam says slowly. “I think we have someone else we have to deal with first.”

“What? Where?”

Sam nods toward the far end of the room. Standing there, staring through the French doors, is the ghost.

The doors are flung open with a blast of cold air sending swirling leaves from the balcony and papers from the table flying. Eyes watering, clothes whipping in the wind, Sam turns to go stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. But before he can move, he feels a dip and a shudder, and he’s trapped in place again. Frozen—unsurprised and half-resigned-- he appraises the situation.

It’s the same ghost, definitely, but, in an unusual accomplishment by a spirit, it’s managed to change from Hamlet’s father in armor into a different costume: full Scottish dress, complete with kilt and sporran, long hair tied back in a thong. Its outfit would almost be humorous, except for the broadsword it still carries, now unsheathed. The long, heavy blade is extended, pointing toward Dean.

 _Shitshitshit._ Sam kicks himself for shedding his gun for comfort’s sake while they were researching. It's sitting, useless, on the table. He can’t turn his head to look, but he knows right where it is. Disarming himself on the hunt? Dean will mock him; Dad will _kill_ him. Oh yeah, if the ghost doesn’t get him first.

Dean flinches back slightly from the ghost, saying,  

    
    
    Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo!—How say you?  
    
    Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!  
    
    Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold. 

Dean voice holds a note Sam’s never heard before. And Sam realizes Dean sounds… scared. Dean Winchester, scared? Of a spirit? _What a joke. Right, Dean?_ It’s the play, Sam thinks; the play, he reassures himself. But the unnerving sound of Dean’s fear still makes his skin crawl.

Sam hears himself quote Lady MacBeth, something about “imposters” and “shame,” but he barely notices, completely focused on the ghost advancing on Dean.

And Dean not moving.

The ghost charges, sword in motion, and Sam can’t process what's happening beyond the fact that Dean’s about three seconds from being decapitated. Desperate, Sam panics, pushing forward with every ounce of physical and mental strength he can, straining against what’s bound him. Every muscle quivers. Pressure like a vise behind his eyes. Sight narrows-- tunnel vision-- on Dean. Abruptly, he pulls free and stumbles forward. Using that momentum, he throws himself, diving, into the ghost. He tackles it awkwardly around the waist, fouling the arc of its sword and forcing it away from his brother.

Sam hits the floor hard and loose, limbs splayed; he glimpses the flash of a sword blade swinging toward his head. “Dean!” he shouts instinctively, and rolls in what he hopes is a safe direction.

A thin, bright line of fire etches across his shoulder as the bare tip of the sword grazes him. He grabs the legs of a nearby chair, but has no leverage to use it as a weapon, only in defense; the ghost demolishes it with one swipe.

Then, as always, Dean is there.  

    
    
    I am a man again— Pray you, sit still. 

Dean, still under the thrall of the curse, has found a prop sword-- thin metal and blunt-edged-- in one of the careless piles around the room. He faces off with his foe, making lazy slashes in the air with his improvised weapon, testing its weight, drawing attention away from Sam prone on the floor.

Dean and the ghost circle each other for only a moment and then engage.

Sam loves the romance of swordfighting; it’s probably the one skill he never, secretly, minded learning as part of the hunt. But unlike the snake-strike swiftness of fencing, combat with broadswords is a brutal ballet. It’s a combination of the fluid dance of a knife-fight with the deliberate, hack-pull of chopping wood. The length and heft of the weapons demands more raw muscle; the slower pace of the blows lends significance to each choice of stroke.

Dean’s never enjoyed blade work the way Sam does; he’s always viewed practicing it as a bit of a chore. But Dean has always had an innate agility and power and more than a bit of the berserker in him, which-- along with whatever skills the curse has endowed him with-- allows him hold his own against the ghost.

Sam pauses, mesmerized by the sight of Dean gliding, hewing, muscles flexing. There’s something about Dean when he’s like this-- focused and formidable-- that has always drawn Sam in.

Sam watches rapt for a few heartbeats, immersed in the drama before him, then realizes that he’s free from control or hindrance. In a flash he’s crawling, scrabbling, then up on his feet, sprinting for his gun. Behind him he hears the clash and shriek of metal-on-metal as Dean and the spirit thrust and parry.

Then he hears a dull _snap_ , and Sam knows Dean’s faux-blade has failed him.

Rushing on, he doesn’t even feel it when he bangs one hip cruelly into the sharp corner of the table, snatching up the weapon, flipping off the safety, turning and aiming in one fluid motion.

“Drop!” he shouts at Dean and fires into the ghost’s chest just as its sword cleaves down in a vicious, undefended sweep.

Instantly, it disappears, leaving behind a silence broken only by their breath, panting almost in unison.

Sam looks over, grinning like a fool, pressing one hand to the inconsequential sliver of a cut on his shoulder. His relieved smile fades when he sees Dean’s face.

“Idiot!” Dean yells. He’s up off the floor and striding over to Sam with that _can’t you do anything right?_ big brother look that never fails to piss Sam off. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking I’d save your ass,” Sam drawls, as much as he can while still catching his breath. “You were so nice to help me out earlier and all.”

This just makes Dean madder. Which, to be honest, was kinda the point. “Save my ass? With what? Your good looks? A freakin’ chair?” Dean starts with the arm-waving. “Goddamn it, Sam! You were unarmed and you threw yourself at its sword!”

The adrenaline that had only just started to ease off from the encounter with the ghost comes flooding back, twofold. “What? I was supposed to let it gut you like a fish instead? Brilliant plan, Dean.”

This is what makes Sam crazy, has always made him crazy: Dean’s whole bullshit over-protective neurosis. They’re not a team; he’s not a partner. He’s just Baby Brother, feeble and childish. Even when it all goes right, he’s in the wrong. He opens his mouth to tell Dean off and grinds out,  

    
    
    Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

 _Here we go again._ Sam finds himself turning to stalk off, which is exactly what he wants to do. He really doesn’t think he’s got the energy to enact another scene with Dean right now. Especially, not one of _those_ scenes. He’s much more in the mood to kick his brother than kiss him.

And just when did kissing Dean become an option on the menu?

Unfortunately, that’s Dean’s cue to grab his arm and spin Sam back to face him.  

    
    
    Women are made to bear, and so are you.

Right. Fall back on the ‘girly’ insults, Dean. How creative. Not that Sam’s planning to play the girl’s part for one minute longer.

He’s sick of feeling unbalanced, unlocked, overwhelmed. He’s sick of this game, this curse, this hunting. He concentrates on turning away again, straining; his jaw is clenched tight, trying to swallow any more lines. But whatever combination of desperation and force of will that he summoned during the swordfight eludes him. Despite his resolve, his hand shoots out and he shoves Dean’s shoulder and continues,  

    
    
    No such jade as you, if me you mean.

Dean shoves back playfully, but his eyes are deep and secret.  

    
    
    Come, come, you wasp, i’ faith you are too angry.

Well, Sam’s angry all right, and here’s Dean, his ever-present target. Powerful, aggravating, untouchable Dean. He may not have been looking for a fight, but he’s sure got one now.

Sam feels the pressure of his character’s anger and frustration-- so like his own-- and in a rush, he gives himself over to it. He snarls back at Dean,  

    
    
    If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 

He hauls off and clocks Dean with a tight right hook. Dean’s head snaps back and he glares at Sam with surprise.

 _Oh shit_ , Sam thinks. _I hit Dean. I hit him. Dean._ His blood thrums in his ears. _And it felt good._

There’s a bright drop of blood glistening at the corner of Dean’s mouth. He wipes at it slowly with his knuckle, never taking his eyes off of Sam. He sees Sam staring at the split lip and his tongue slips out to lave back and forth across the wound.

He steps toward Sam, until he’s standing too close. Sam can feel the heat radiating off of him, smell the tangy scent of the sweat from the fight and the blood on his mouth.

He watches the struggle in Dean’s face and doesn’t know whether to hope Dean’s able to resist the curse or not. Sam knows he himself is too tired to fight it. He doesn’t want to think about fighting it. In fact, he’d rather fight Dean, rid himself this strange fixation using his fists.

He sees the moment that Dean gives in, too. No reprieve.

Dean responds,  

    
    
    My remedy is then to pluck it out. 

On the last word, Dean strikes, hands fisting in Sam’s shirt. He pushes, then twists and pulls forward, throwing Sam off-balance and down to the floor. Sam grunts at the impact and scrabbles for a hand hold on Dean’s sweat-slick arms. The heel of his hand connects with Dean’s elbow, unlocking it, and with a shove he brings Dean slamming down on shoulder and hip.

Sam rolls away and up to one knee, gasping,  

    
    
    Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. 

Before Sam can catch his breath, Dean crouches and springs. He barrels into Sam, sending them both tumbling. On the floor they roll and grapple, heaving, vying for the upper hand. And fuck if Dean’s not grinning.

Grinning like he did when they were kids. Years and years of sparring where Sam-- four years younger and smaller— battled but never won. Taunted and patronized and so frustrated it would bring tears to his eyes. But he’s not that little boy now.

Dean tries to pin him, and Sam feels hot breath on his cheek, relishes the flex of smooth muscle under his hands and against his thighs. He gasps, shudders. No, definitely not a little boy.

Sam breaks away. He surges to his feet, and Dean follows. They circle each other warily, each looking for an opening.

Dean feints right and dodges left, going for a headlock. Sam’s able to spin away, but as he does Dean gives him a sharp, playful swat on the ass, saying,  

    
    
    Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?  
    
    In his tail.

Infuriated, Sam whirls and deals him a vicious backhanded blow that’s blocked and a punch to the sternum that isn’t. He retorts,  

    
    
    In his tongue. 

Dean wheezes but doesn’t falter. He manages to capture Sam’s arm and twist it around into an arm lock, hitching it up high on Sam’s back. Sam hardly feels the wrench in his arm and shoulder, because Dean’s lower body is solid up against him, hips pressing into his. There’s a harsh murmur into the sweaty-wet curls on the back of Sam’s neck,  

    
    
    Whose tongue? 

Sam sags forward and sweeps back with one leg, making Dean slip and loosen his hold.  

    
    
    Yours, if you talk of tales, and so farewell.

Sam gives the off-balance Dean a shove in the center of his chest, sending him stumbling backward. But Dean snags Sam’s shirt and they fall together onto that dreaded plaid sofa.

Sam lands across Dean’s lap, head down, ass up. He frantically tries to heave himself off, but Dean plants a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, effectively pinning him down. Dean’s other hand strokes slowly, agonizingly downward, past the dip at the small of Sam’s back and comes to rest at his hip.  

    
    
    What? With my tongue in your tail?

Sam freezes. An image flashes in his mind of himself naked, of Dean, Dean’s tongue, licking, damp, down his bare spine, licking down… He feels a fierce jolt of arousal and instantly he’s hard.

Too late, space and time lurch sideways, and Sam is his own again. But he hears Dean make a low, throaty noise and he can’t stop himself from grinding his erection down into Dean’s solid thighs.

He throws himself violently off of Dean’s lap, landing awkwardly on the floor, and crab-walks backwards on hands and heels. Simultaneously, Dean’s up off the couch and leaps for the doorway. They stare at each other for long seconds.

Sam can see the rigid line of Dean’s cock vivid against the dark denim of his jeans.

“God, Sammy, are you okay?” Dean asks. He extends one hand toward Sam, either in aid or in supplication or maybe it’s that Dean just reaches out to him automatically. Sam flinches back.

Dean sees the flinch and his jaw tightens in response. With a curse, he turns on his heel and strides out the door.

***

Sam collapses boneless back flat on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. His arms and legs feel loose on their joints, like he’s been taken apart and put back together wrong. His dick is still uncomfortably full and throbbing, but he doesn’t allow himself to think about that. Can’t think about that.

Hamlet’s line about ‘too, too solid flesh’ flashes through Sam’s mind, and he laughs ruefully. Better to laugh than to cry.

With more effort than it should really take, he brings his fists up and digs knuckles into his eyes. Bright streaks of red and yellow shoot behind his eyelids. What kind of sick fuck wants to hump his brother’s leg?

He wonders what he’ll say to Dean when he finds him.

“Crap!” He sits straight up, just now realizing where Dean’s gone. The idiot’s gone off half-cocked— his mind stumbles over that expression, but he hurries on-- gone out to track down Puck. And, based on the glimpse Sam got of Dean’s game face as he took off, there’s no telling what kind of shit is about to hit the fan.

With a groan, he surges to his feet and races off, radar tuned to any sign of ghost or Fae or wrathful Winchester.

 

***

 

“…or _what_ , Dean?”

Sam dashes around the corner and slides to a halt at the top of the main aisle of the auditorium. He’d found nothing in the tiny lobby where they’d originally encountered Robin, but rushed to the theater proper when he’d heard a shouted exchange.

The theater is dim and hollow, and the smell of it reminds Sam of his favorite reading room in the library at Stanford— a combination of brittle paper and furniture wax. Dust motes flit through the pools of light around the dozen or so faux-candle houselights burning along the side walls. The soft gold of the light blends with the heavy red of the seat cushions and old-fashioned velvet curtains, giving Dean, who stands center-stage, a ruddy glow.

Dean’s glaring up into the rafters, and Sam, making his way down to the stage to stand beside him, follows Dean’s gaze to the shadowed catwalk. There, Puck lounges in the follow-spot chair, feet propped up on the rail and crossed at the ankle in an exaggeratedly casual pose. Gone is the eager boy from the lobby; in his place is a big problem.

“Salt,” Dean spits out. “Running water. Cold Iron. Whatever it takes to force you to release us from this goddamn curse.”

Puck nimbly hops up onto the top of the safety rail and swings his legs back and forth like a child. He waves one hand negligently. “’Curse.’ It’s such an ugly word. Think of it more as… as my gift to you!”

“I’ll give you a gift, you son-of-a-bitch.” Dean clenches his fists and looks around for a way up into the space above the stage.

Sam grabs Dean’s arm, drawing him aside, muttering, “Back off, Dean. Don’t you remember the last time we tangled with the Fae? You were nearly enslaved and I ended up getting turned into a fawn, for godsake.”

Dean turns his frustration full on Sam. “So suddenly you’re alright with this? Everything’s just peachy?”

“Of course not! But we need a plan to deal with him.“

Dean shrugs off Sam’s restraining hand. “I’m not planning on dealing. I’m _planning_ on kicking his ass.”

Sam lips draw into a thin line. “Yeah, like that’s going to help. Listen—“

Puck breaks in, calling down, “Yes, listen to Sam, Brother Dear.” His voice is poisonous and sweet. “I think perhaps you forget who you’re dealing with here.”

Puck makes a small flicking motion with his hands toward the stage, like he’s shooing away flies. In the space of about three breaths, Dean’s ears, _his ears!_ , stretch and lengthen and fuzz over with a light grey fur.

Puck crows down from on high, “See, Dean? Keep braying and braying and this is what you get. Voila!” His hoots of laughter ring harsh and loud among the rafters.

Sam looks at Dean with those long ears and it’s somehow just _too funny_. A snort escapes him and then suddenly he’s doubled over laughing, too, hands over his mouth to try in vain to keep it in. _So this is what hysteria feels like. Not good._

Dean looks at him in astonishment. “I can’t believe you’re laughing about this, you jerk.”

Sam shakes his head furiously, eyes watering and apologetic. He’s gulping in air behind the tight grip of his hands.

“C’mon, Sammy, don’t lose it on me now.” Dean growls.

The laugher trails off as suddenly as it started. Damn it, Dean _needs_ him and he’s worse than no help at all. “Sorry,” Sam gasps out. “Sorry. We’ll... we’ll fix it.”

Dean runs his fingers up and down his transformed ears. His hands tremble slightly, but the look in his eyes is all rage and calculation but not one ounce of fear. How can Dean be so unflappable when Sam feels like he’s plummeting down the rabbit hole?

And to make matters worse, as Sam watches Dean stride up to the front of the stage, his stomach lurches with that now familiar skip-jump sensation. _From the frying pan, to the fire._

Dean paces back and forth with desperate energy. He turns abruptly back to Sam and says,  

    
    
    I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, to fright me, if they could.

Sam feels dread ripple through him. _Oh no no no no no._ He knows this scene. And if Dean is playing Bottom… _shit_.

Puck calls down, “You know, on second thought, the ears? They’re such a cliché.” As quickly as they appeared, they’re gone, and Dean is back to normal. Sam can still feel the weight of the curse on him; the scene’s still playing out. In his gut he knows Puck hasn’t suddenly decided to go easy on them.

Puck continues, amused, “Besides, this looks like it’s going to be much more interesting.” At those words, he disappears. The houselights all wink out and the spotlight comes on, shining blindingly down. Dean is pinned in it like an ant under a magnifying glass; Sam moves to join him in the circle of light.

At once Sam is flooded with love and sympathy for Dean, so in line with what he himself was just feeling that it’s overwhelming. _Titania._ Sam acknowledges. _Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’s supposed to be enspelled by Puck, too, right? A double whammy._ Then, overlaying the pure love is a wave of lust so powerful that it makes his mouth water. _My god, what is wrong with me? How can I want this so badly?_

He lays his hands unwillingly on Dean’s shoulders.  

    
    
    I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.  
    
    Mine ear is much enamored of thy note;  
    
    So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;  
    
    And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me,  
    
    On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee. 

Dean gives him a small, tight smile.  

    
    
    Methinks, you should have little reason for that.  
    
    And yet, to say the truth,  
    
    Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

Sam’s hand lifts to Dean’s face, his thumb brushing slowly across Dean’s eyebrow and then his cheekbone, finally moving around to cup around the back of his neck.  

    
    
    Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.   

Dean pulls away and turns downstage. Sam regrets the loss of the heat of him under his hands and hates himself for it.

Dean looks out toward the rear doors of the theater, shielding his eyes from the spotlight like a sailor scanning the horizon in the midday sun.  
 
    
    
    Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out  of this wood,  
    
    I have enough to serve mine own turn.  

Before Dean can wander too far away, Sam grabs him by the bicep. He steps up behind Dean pressing his chest to Dean’s back and breathes into the soft skin behind his ear,  

    
    
    Out of this wood do not desire to go:  
    
               Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.  
    
               I am a spirit of no common rate;   
    
    The summer still doth tend upon my state;  
    
              And I do love thee: therefore, go with me.

Trailing his hand down Dean’s arm, Sam gently encircles his wrist and leads him into the darkness of the wings. He doesn’t even know where he is going until he sees a dressing room ahead, door half-open. Sam knows it’s too much to hope that it’s a place they can go to ground, to shake off Puck's spell before it goes any further, to regroup.

Dean is unresisting as Sam gently pulls him inside, closing the door behind them. The room is dark, but light filtering in around the edges of the closed door shimmers and rebounds off of two long rows of mirrors, providing just enough to see.

Running along both walls are matching rows of dressing tables stacked with neat piles of makeup and brushes and hair clips, the detritus of the actors’ trade. At the far end is a small daybed covered in multi-colored pillows and folds of fabric and-- in the tiny corner of Sam’s mind that isn’t running in tight, panicked circles-- he thinks _casting couch_.

Sam strides forward and sweeps the clutter from the bed onto the floor with one hand, the other never losing contact with Dean.

He straightens, standing close enough to feel Dean’s rapid, shallow breath on his face. In the dimness, Dean’s eyes are black and unreadable, and Sam realizes Dean won’t be able to see all of the apology and regret he’s trying to communicate with his own expression.

For a moment he tries to pull back, away from Dean and the lure of his full, slightly parted lips. He wants to be able to tell Dean later that he honestly tried to resist. Then he moves that last little bit and their mouths touch.

Kissing Dean hits Sam like a gunshot. The wet warmth of Dean’s lips opening to him causes a rush of sensation all over his body, and he clutches Dean against him desperately. His stomach heaves with the wrongness of holding his brother like this—want and need and guilt mix together like acid in his gut. He feels queasy and mortified, but at the same time he can’t stop wanting more. He wants the hard lines of Dean’s body and Dean’s warm fingers skimming the waistband of his jeans. He wants.

Sam has kissed guys before, where it’s all brutal teeth clashing and aggression and need. He’s kissed girls before, where it’s all soft coaxing open of lips and tongues sliding out to taste slow and steady and heated. Kissing Dean is like both… or like neither. It’s everything Sam’s never known he’s dreamed of.

Dean grabs the hem of Sam’s shirt and slips it up over his head. He leans forward so that his lips are just over the pulse point in Sam’s neck, a ghost of a touch. Then his tongue flicks out to lick along the collarbone. Sam shivers and his head tilts back to give Dean more access. Hands work under Dean's shirt to skate lightly across the smooth planes of muscle.

He feels more than hears Dean’s low moan, and another stab of guilt hits him.

He’s not fighting this, not really. Because he’s always wanted more from Dean. To be let inside that armor and figure out how to give him what he needs. Sam just never imagined the need would be this: bodies and mouths and skin-on-skin. And he fears that it’s _his_ need, not Dean’s, that’s brought them to this; it’s his lack of true resistance that drives it. But if this is what it takes to get Dean, he’s weak enough to succumb to it.

Then Sam can’t think beyond Dean kissing the sensitive skin under his jaw, Dean stripping him of his shirt, Dean pushing him, sprawling onto the bed.

Sam leans back, his legs fall open, and Dean is there, covering him with his body. One of Sam’s hands presses to the small of Dean’s back, pulling him even closer. The other works in between them to undo the button on Dean’s jeans. Dean’s teeth lock onto Sam’s shoulder just as Sam edges the zipper down and slips in, wrapping his hand around the hard heat of Dean’s cock.

He feels like he’s falling apart.

He feels Dean tremble, too, and Sam’s hips rock upward, rubbing Dean’s cock between hips and hand. He thinks hazily that maybe if he can make this good for Dean, it will atone for some the violation of it. Yeah. He can make it good.

Sam flips them over so that he’s the one pressing down on Dean. Dean’s hands come around to slide Sam’s jeans down enough to cup his bare ass. Sam raises himself on one knee and skims out of his own pants then frees Dean from his as well, so that they are both naked in the warm, still air of the room.

There’s a terrifying pause and Sam doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. But then he’s kissing his way down Dean’s chest and belly and Dean is arching back into the bed and it all seems so inevitable and so right.

Sam plans to learn every hidden thing about Dean. The taste of his smooth, heated cock, the soft suppleness of his balls. Learn every inch of sleek skin and wiry hair and solid muscle.

He rubs small circles on Dean’s hipbone with his thumb, then skims his fingertips lightly around the skin below his navel and thighs without touching the curving cock. When Sam leans down to roll his tongue around the tip, Dean bucks up off the couch, trying to drive deep into Sam’s mouth. Sam’s muscles bunch and he wants to run, to hide in shame as his own aching hardness jerks in reaction. He presses Dean firmly down. Holding him still, making him wait for it. He wets Dean’s cock with saliva, teases him, alternating small, nipping kisses with long, punishingly slow licks along its length.

Dean threads his fingers deep into Sam’s hair. Not pulling or guiding. Just holding on as Sam relents and takes Dean all the way in. Dean lets out a stifled half-shout and grips the one hand Sam’s got on his hip hard enough to grind the bones in his fingers. It could mean _wait, no_ ; it could mean _more, please, please_. But it doesn’t matter. Neither of them can stop this now. His mouth rises and slides along Dean’s length, Sam slips one finger between his lips to curl and rub up one side, his tongue down the other.

Sam pulls off with a small, wet _pop_ and watches Dean’s face tighten and flush as he traces his damp finger back behind Dean’s balls, trailing down the soft stretch of skin there and beyond. Dean spreads his legs wider with a low groan.

As soon as Sam touches Dean’s entrance, his lips go back on his cock, tongue swirling around the head and under the ridge in time with his finger’s caress. Then Sam swallows Dean down, deep and swift, at the same time the tip of his finger breaches Dean’s body. Dean rears up with a cry and shoots hot and bitter. Sam takes as much as he can, spitting the rest onto Dean’s belly. Then his own need can’t be denied and he surges up, grinding his erection into the tender skin at the hollow of Dean’s hip and thigh. There’s friction and pressure and Dean rises to meet his urgent thrusts, accidentally gripping the shallow sword cut on Sam’s shoulder. The sudden bite of pain throws Sam right over the edge.

His spine seizes and everything that is in him-- every last bit of himself-- pumps out through his dick, mingling with the liquid pool of Dean’s come and sweat. He buries his face in Dean’s neck, and all of the apologies and promises he utters are lost in his brother’s skin.

He becomes aware of his own breathing first, short hard breaths, then of Dean trembling against him. Dean has one arm thrown over his face, eyes covered. Whatever words Sam might have said aloud are silenced, forbidden by the barrier of Dean’s body language.

Sam slides down off of the couch and onto the floor. Wrapping his arms around his shins, he lays his head on his knees and struggles not to think. Tries not to pinpoint just exactly when during all… _that_ the power of the curse had stopped controlling him.

The silence in the room presses in on him like deep water. Sam stands, fumbling on jeans and scooping up his t-shirt and shoes, and slips quietly out the door.

***

Sam makes his way back out to the stage area. The spotlight is out, but otherwise everything is the same: the dust, the stillness. He just left here less than an hour before, but if feels like a lifetime ago. His limbs are heavy and his tongue is thick. He calls out, “Puck. Puck!”

There is no answer but his voice echoing around in the rafters. Sam presses on, “What do you want? What do I have to do to get you to stop this? I… We… ” He swallows as his voice threatens to break. “It’s got to stop.”

As if deliberately mocking his words, his hands fold together in front of him and he begins to speak softly,  

    
    
    The quality of mercy is not strained;  
    
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…

Puck steps out of nowhere from behind one of the curtains on stage left and cuts him off. “Stop it. Just stop it!” He makes a face. “Ugh. I _hate_ that speech. Portia. What a fucking bore.”

Abruptly, Sam’s dropped back into himself. He starts pacing, just because he can. “ _I’m_ not the one doing it.” He struggles to maintain an even tone. Look where confrontation got them last time. “You are.”

“Well, if you must know,” Puck replies mildly, “Strictly speaking, I’m not controlling what scenes you play.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one, leaning casually against the wall. “I just crafted this whole Shakespeare drama to happen randomly, depending on what the two of you are feeling at the time.” He smirks around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “How was I to know you’d be so deliciously wicked?”

“Wait. You _smoke_?”

“Hey. Don’t judge me. It’s not like it’s going to kill me or anything.” He takes a long drag and sighs contentedly. “You mortals sure know how to live.”

Sam wrestles his mind back to the uncomfortable point of this conversation. “Why? Why do this?” Sam gestures at his throat, then his body.

Puck strikes a pose, one hand gesturing grandly. “’Some Cupid kill with arrows, some with traps.’” He slouches back against the wall. “What can I say? You amuse me. That’s my gig. But I don’t know why you’re so pissed at me. I just helped you face something that was there already.” He aims another wicked grin Sam’s way. “Doesn’t that feel better than all the denial and frustration?”

Sam’s jaw clenches and he has to very deliberately pitch his voice low and even. “How can I convince you to stop this?”

“Simple. Get rid of the ghost, you get rid of the Shakespeare.”

“But we’ve been trying to get rid of the ghost all night!” Sam protests. “That’s the whole reason we’re here! This little… prank of yours is interfering with that, not helping.”

“Why can’t I have both? Besides, as The Man says, ‘I must be cruel only to be kind.’”

“Believe it or not, I’m really getting tired of the Shakespeare quotes. And what are you talking about ‘kindness’?” Sam replies bitterly. “We can’t go on like this.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “Dean. I… Look what I’ve done. This’s got to be killing him.”

Casually, Puck stubs the half-smoked cigarette out on the sole of his boot. “Don’t worry, Sam. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I write sins, not tragedies.”

 _Nothing bad. Nothing_ bad _happen?_ It’s laughable at this point, but Sam’s too angry to be amused. “Great. You’ve gone from quoting William Shakespeare to moronic MTV bands? You’re the shittiest excuse for a fairy I’ve ever seen.”

“Aw, Sammy. Don’t be a prick like your big brother. You and I were just getting to be friends.”

“Fuck you,” As Sam stalks off, he snarls over his shoulder, “We’ll get your goddamn ghost.”

Puck calls out cheerfully to Sam’s retreating back. “I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

***

The anger that fueled him during his conversation with Puck drains away the closer he comes to facing Dean again. This is insane. More insane than anything they’ve faced before… and that’s saying a lot.

 _And it’s my fault. How could I do this to him?_ He contemplates just keeping on walking, away from the theater, away from the forest, away from Dean.

But instead, too soon, Sam is standing in the doorway to the dressing room. He sees that Dean’s dressed and he’s crouched down rummaging through some boxes half-pulled from a closet.

Dean’s shoulders twitch as he senses Sam behind him, but he doesn’t look up.

“Dean--” Sam starts, voice shredded like he’s been eating glass.

“We’re _not_ talking about this.” Dean yanks the boxes around roughly, still not looking over. “We’re going to finish this thing and then we’re taking off. We’re going to finish it now, before I have to burn the place to the ground.”

Sam is trying to hold it together, but his body reacts to the memory of what happened here. His skin prickles and he feels his face flush. The taste of Dean lingers in his mouth.

He clenches his fists, digging his fingernails brutally into his palms, using the pain to focus. Then he goes and sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Dean as he passes him.

“Dean,” Sam begins again. “I found Puck. He told me all we have to do to stop the curse is get rid of the ghost.” Sam clears his throat, eyes fixed on Dean’s unresponsive back. “He also told me that these… scenes that are happening to us aren’t just random, they—“

“Sam!” Dean cuts him off sharply, slanting a glance over his shoulder but still not looking straight at him. “What part of ‘not talking’ do you not understand?”

In the subsequent silence, Sam picks at a hangnail. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the future and the past recede until he’s trapped in this one horrible eternal now.

He has to get out of here, but when he goes to stand, he can’t.

Dean’s lines break the silence,  

    
    
    Marry, if you would pit me to verses or to dance for your sake, why you undo me.  
    
    I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation,  
    
    only downright oaths which I never use till urged, nor ever break for urging.  
    
    I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou canst love me for this, take me.  
    
    And while thou liv’st take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy,  
    
    for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places.  

Finally Dean looks up. The desperation in his eyes twists Sam’s gut.  

    
    
    Canst thou love me?

Sam heart cries out, _Of course!_ while his head adds, _Is this real?_ His mouth says,  

    
    
    I cannot tell.

Dean responds with that cocky smile that Sam thinks he doesn’t ever want to go a day without seeing,  

    
    
    Then can any of your neighbors tell? I’ll ask them. 

Dean walks over and crouches in between Sam’s knees. He takes Sam’s hand in his, not with ardor, but to focus attention. As if Sam were not consumed with everything Dean. Dean continues,  

    
    
    Come, I know thou lovest me. Mock me mercifully, because I love thee cruelly.  
    
    Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better…  
    
    and therefore tell me, will you have me?

Sam finds himself pulling his hands from Dean’s grip. He doesn’t recognize this play, and for a second he is terrified that the scene will call for him to reject Dean, to crush him for revealing so much truth. At this point, Sam would rather cross any line-- any other line at all-- but that one.

But instead of fleeing, he places a hand on either side of Dean’s face, cupping it tenderly, fingers buried in the soft hair behind his ears.  

    
    
    I am content.

And he leans forward to kiss Dean’s upturned mouth.

***

“It’s the sword.”

“No, it’s the wig.”

“The sword, Dean.”

Dean’s back to rooting among the boxes from the closet. “There’s no swords that match his upstairs with the props. Believe me. That’s why I was stuck earlier with that piss-poor thing that broke. I’m telling you, the wig is his link.”

Sam pictures the long, wild hair of the Hamlet spirit and the ponytail on its MacBeth incarnation. Then he remembers the sword in the ghost’s hands, coming at Dean with a killing blow. “Well, maybe the right sword is stashed somewhere and we just haven’t found it yet.”

“Or, it’s the wig.” Dean lets out a huff of triumph and tosses a bundle of hair into Sam’s unsuspecting lap. Sam jumps and hastily shoves it off like it’s a spider and he’s Miss Muffet. He shoots Dean a repressive look, just like usual. _See. Everything’s okay. Look at how okay we are. We should be in the dictionary under ‘okay.’_

Dean scoops up the wig. “Come on. Let’s go outside to salt and burn this baby.”

Out in the hall, they head toward the front doors. Dean halts abruptly. “Wait a minute. Where’s the gear?”

“Um.” Sam attempts the amazing feat of retracing their steps without actually thinking about what they’ve done that evening. “It must be upstairs in the rehearsal room. I think we left it there when we were researching those old files.”

“Alright. You stay here. I’ll run up and grab the bag and be right back. Sit tight.”

“Split up? You’re joking, right?”

“Listen,” Dean reasons, “This curse thing only happens when we’re together. If I go alone and the ghost shows up, I’ll plug him with salt, get the gear, and get out. If we both go and then get hit by the whammy when the ghost shows up, we’re up-the-creek again.” Dean uses his premium _brother-knows-best_ look.

“Fine,” Sam huffs, and sits down on the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve got three minutes. After that, I’m coming to rescue you.” As Dean takes the stairs two at a time, Sam mutters under his breath, “Again.”

Sam fidgets for a moment, then settles on staring at his watch, staring at the seconds hand sweep around the dial. He tries for a zen-like calm, but then he falls into brooding over where he went wrong, what he could’ve done differently to protect them from ending up here. Tonight. This week. This year. There’s less than a minute left on Dean’s time limit when the bump-rush of the curse overtakes Sam again. _So much for_ that _theory, Dean, you frickin’ genius._

Sam stands and calls out,  

    
    
    How ill this taper burns! Ha! Who comes here?  
    
    Speak to me what thou art.

The ghost appears. It’s dressed this time in blood-stained white robes, dagger in its hand. By the sandals and laurel wreath on its head, Sam’s got a good idea of the play, but the long hair doesn’t fit the Roman theme. _Alright. Points to Dean on that one._

For the first time, the ghost has lines. Its voice resonates along the hallway and up the stairwell,  

    
    
    Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

It advances on Sam, not brandishing its weapon, but not sheathing it, either. Sam listens eagerly for the thunder of Dean’s feet on the stairs. He wouldn’t mind a little rescuing of his own. _C’mon, man. Any time now._ He speaks his next lines, trying for volume, to yell a little, maybe alert Dean to the situation,  

    
    
    Why com’st thou?

It’s close now, close enough for Sam to smell the ozone and feel the chill coming off of it in waves. Sam fights the curse, struggling to retreat up the stairs, but his body still won’t obey him. All he can do is keep an eye on that dagger and wait. The ghost is just within striking distance when it says,  

    
    
    To tell thee thou shalt see me…

“In hell,” Dean finishes, and he tosses the burning wig down from the landing of the stairs to disintegrate at Sam’s feet.

***

There is a heavy silence on the way to the car, both of them conspicuously busy checking gear, packing the trunk. The doors give that homey creak as Sam climbs inside, and the sense of security and relief he feels as he settles into his seat is enough to nearly bring tears to his eyes. Yeah, he’s that tired. But then Dean gets in beside him, and despite being bone-weary, Sam sits stiffly upright, as if he needs to be ready to leap from the car at a moment's notice.

Dean turns the ignition and sits staring out the windshield. Then he reaches over and places his warm, square hand on the back of Sam’s neck.

He wraps one finger around a lock of Sam’s hair and tugs, twice.

Sam glances over, shocked, and sees Dean smiling crookedly. His eyes are full of longing, yes, but fondness and humor, too. Sam hesitates, then gratefully leans back into Dean’s hand for a moment. “Are you sure that we are awake?” His voice is rough and low with lack of sleep and emotion. “It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.”

Dean cards Sam’s hair with his fingers, reassuringly. Sam turns to brush his lips against Dean’s palm, then leans forward again, breaking contact.

They head back to Athens just as the sun rises.

**Author's Note:**

> There are any number of allusions to scenes and snippets of dialogue from Shakespeare in the story, but the main sections of direct quotes are taken from:  
> Conversation on the Stairs ~ Romeo and Juliet, Act II:2  
> Confrontation on the Roof ~ Hamlet, Act I:4  
> Dean Threatens the Ghost ~ Much Ado About Nothing, Act V:1  
> Avowal on the Couch ~ Twelfth Night, Acts II:4 and V:1  
> Swordfight with Banquo’s Ghost~ MacBeth, Act III:4  
> Brothers Grappling ~ Taming of the Shrew, Act II:1  
> Dean is Doubly Cursed ~ A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act III:1  
> Sam is Denied a Show-stopping Speech ~ Merchant of Venice, Act IV:1  
> Dean woos Sam ~ Henry The Fifth, Act V:2  
> The Ghost is Ended ~ Julius Caesar, Act V:1  
> Sam’s Final Line ~ Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV:2


End file.
